


Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues (Everybody Goes to Joe’s)

by beachkid (binz), binz



Category: Highlander: The Series, The Sentinel
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-26
Updated: 2005-06-26
Packaged: 2017-10-07 13:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/beachkid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/binz/pseuds/binz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two ships, one night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like Tom Thumb’s Blues (Everybody Goes to Joe’s)

Outside it was damp and the wind was just a little too cool for comfort, chill against his skin and slick with the back alley, harbour-front grime of an unfamiliar city. Inside it was a different kind of dark, and Jim paused a moment in the doorway. Red-lit night flickered behind him – a long stretch of sky smeared orange with streetlights and mist – and he could almost connect the darkroom glow of the light-up bar sign to the smell of salt water after sunset and the gravelly touch of warmth seeping out from the open entrance.

The descent into the bar was a taste of river water; an air current rich with soul-deep chords and an animal-comfort, low-level buzz of sweat and body heat that hummed a b flat in Jim's fingertips and settled in the back of his throat. His footsteps were muffled against the hardwood, and a steady undercurrent of cleaner mixed with floor varnish and the crowd rose up into the air.

A moment's deliberation, a brief scan of the small, scattered clientele (acceptable, relaxed; smooth smiles and a few long day? sighs intertwined with denim-blue malescent and flickers of bourbon-warm female laughter) and the points of entry, and he slid onto a stool at the empty bar.

His back was cramped and his body was sore in the way that came from doing nothing, and Jim was glad to stretch forward, hunch-hump against the plain, clean bar top. The brush of worn jeans and clean cotton against his skin helped to chase away the tactile recollection of a pressed suit and a Seacouver court bench, and the smooth slide of his arms pulled down the shoulders of his jacket where the leather was a comfortable, familiar weight.

There was an odd shuffle to the bartender's step, a slide against the floor and a rolling in his hips; the softest creak like shipboards and the muted _swoosh-hush_ of blood and muscles offset by the tap of a cane. [Prosthetics,] Jim's brain supplied, and satisfied, he met the quirked lips with raised eyebrows and a small smile.

"Draught?" he asked, and the bartender nodded, half-turning to grab a glass and tipping it under the spout.

"Run a tab for you tonight?" The bartender placed the drink on the counter, the glass hitting the wood with a muffled clink that merged with the smooth chords coming from the band and the smooth lines of the bartender's voice, and Jim touched a finger to the rim of the glass. The sounds of the bar focused on the contact, translated and transformed and crystal clear beneath water, and Jim nodded on the down beat, thinking over his earlier plan of escaping the hotel for fresh air and a quick drink.

"Yes," he said, tilting his head upwards and meeting the bartender's eyes, "please."

The man nodded and looked down, scribbling something below the line of sight, and Jim amused himself by taking a slow drink of a surprisingly good draught and turning the scratching of pen on paper into words. He raised his eyebrows as he lowered the glass, swallowing and tipping his chin at the bartender. "This is very good."

The bartender quirked his lips in something that had softer edges than a smirk but was privately amused and not as absolutely inclusive as a smile and said: "It's our own brew. A friend's personal blend." He narrowed his eyes briefly, running them over Jim's face, and added, "I don't think I've seen you in here before."

Jim raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth. "You know all your patrons on sight?"

The bartender chuckled, freshwater huskiness in his voice weaning tension from Jim's jaw and down the centre of his back; it tasted like Mississippi and St. Louis and streetlights flickering in summer-pale dusk. Jim took another drink. "Most of them, at least. I own the place."

"You'd be Joe, then?" Jim asked, settling deeper onto his seat and transferring his bodyweight to his elbows.

"You got it," Joe echoed Jim's posture, leaning against the bar and shifting into a solid stance. He reached out a hand: "Joe Dawson. And now I'm positive I don't recognise you."

Jim shook his hand, relenting with a half-nod and an open smile. "Jim Ellison. I'm from out of town. Cascade. Just here for a few days."

Self-satisfied, Dawson nodded and grinned. "Cascade, huh? Not that far away. Business trip?"

"Yeah, here for work." Jim ran his thumb down the length of his glass, enjoying the slide and slight vibration of the movement and the blues guitar. "You've got a really great place, here." He glanced around, the lights at the bar flashing at the edges of his vision as he took in the band where the guitarist was winding slow, simple chords in and out and counterpoint with the drum kit, and the alto was taking a break, a trombone lying in an open case at her feet. The crowd was small but attentive, and there was enough gentle laughter when the guitarist skipped a chord and sped up, leaving the drummer surprised and considering, to hum with familiarity and rapport.

"Yeah, it's not bad." Joe followed his gaze, lips quirking when the alto joined in, and he tilted his chin at the people scattered throughout the tables and booths. "Good crowd for a Wednesday, and they're sticking around late. The band's our regular; they come in and play a few times a week. The girl on the keyboard is one of my bartenders."

Jim shot the band another look over the rim of his glass. "Do you play?"

Joe laughed, the sound low and rough and warm and whole, and it settled in Jim's stomach, echoing the low-level heat of the drink, and mixing with his blood. "Sometimes." He quirked an eyebrow. "If it's not too busy, or on the weekends, maybe. Not often."

"Guitar?" Jim rubbed his thumb against his fingers, remembering the rough and brush and line of the calluses along the fingers and palm of the hand that had shook his own.

Joe's mouth curled in faint surprised. "Yeah. Blues." He tilted his head slightly, gaze narrowing along the slant of his mouth and his smile spread echoes across his face and into the lines around his eyes. "You play anything?"

Jim shook his head. "No, no," he said, then tilted his head and added: "drums. Years ago. Haven't touched them since I was a kid; they're probably still in my dad's basement."

Joe flashed a grin. "Well, maybe you'll have to dig them up sometime. See if you still have the touch."

Jim swallowed the curve of Joe's voice to where it settled against his diaphragm, and thought of taunt skins and vibrations and the balanced weight of his sticks. "Maybe," he said, and shrugged out of his jacket, baring arms and stretched cotton to the heavy air and a faint rush of heat from across the counter. He finished his drink, and placed the empty glass on the bar top. Foam slid down the inside, and Jim watched light catch on the dredges at the bottom.

The crowd clapped, and someone called out, and Jim turned to see the guitarist stand up and wave, and the saxophone slide off the edge of the stage and walk over to a couple on the floor.

"How late are you open?"

Joe shifted and stood, glancing at his watch, and looked back up at Jim. His gaze was clear and warm and something richer than laughter and lighter than the rain hid at the bottom. "Not too much longer, but don't worry. Stick around. Do you want another?" He tipped his chin towards Jim's glass, and Jim nodded.

Joe's underarms turned toward the light as he reached for a new glass and the tap, and Jim followed the swell of strong muscles under tanned skin to a circle of faded green and complicated design. He felt something uncurl in his stomach and his lips curved as he took the drink, and he wondered about the grate and glide of Joe's laugh and voice, and how the ink would taste against the skin.


End file.
